_An Amorous Address to the charming_ CORINNA.

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_Corinna_ 'tis you that I Love, And love with a Pa.s.sion, a Pa.s.sion so great; That death a less Torment would prove, Than either your Frown or your hate: So soft and prevailing your Charms, In vain I should strive to retreat; Oh! then let me live in your Arms, Or dye in Despair at your Feet.

In vain I may pray to Love's Powers, To ease me and pity my Pain; Since the Heart that I sue for is yours, Who all other Powers disdain: Like a _G.o.ddess_ you Absolute reign, You alone 'tis can save or kill; To whom else then should I complain, Since my fate must depend on your will.

_The Coy La.s.s dress'd up in her best Commode and Top-knot._

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Do not rumple my Top-knot, I'll not be kiss'd to Day; I'll not be hawl'd and pull'd about, Thus on a Holy-day: Then if your Rudeness you don't leave, No more is to be said; See this long Pin upon my Sleeve, I'll run up to the Head: And if you rumple my head Gear, I'll give you a good flurt on the Ear.

Come upon a Worky-day, When I have my old Cloaths on; I shall not be so nice nor Coy, Nor stand so much upon: Then hawl and pull, and do your best, Yet I shall gentle be: Kiss hand, and Mouth, and feel my Breast, And tickle to my Knee: I won't be put out of my rode, You shall not rumple my Commode.

_A_ SONG _in the Dramatick_ OPERA _of_ KING ARTHUR. _Written by Mr._ DRYDEN.

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Fairest Isle, all Isles excelling, Seat of pleasures, and of Love; _Venus_ here, will chuse her dwelling, And forsake her _Cyprian Grove_.

_Cupid_ from his fav'rite Nation, Care and Envy will remove; Jealousy that poisons Pa.s.sion, And Despair that dies for Love.

Gentle murmurs sweet complaining, Sighs that blow the fire of Love; Soft Repulses, kind Disdaining, Shall be all the Pains you prove.

Every Swain shall pay his Duty, Grateful every Nymph shall prove; And as these excel in Beauty, Those shall be renown'd for Love.

_A_ SONG _in the Comedy call'd the_ (Wives Excuse: _Or_, Cuckolds make themselves.) _Sung by Mrs._ BUTLER.

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Hang this whining way of Wooing, Loving was design'd a sport; Sighing, talking without doing, Makes a sily Idol court: Don't believe that Words can move her, If she be not well inclin'd; She herself must be the Lover, To perswade her to be kind: If at last she grants the Favour, And consents to be undone; Never think your Pa.s.sion gave her, To your wishes, but her own.

_A_ SONG _in the Opera call'd the_ (Fairy Queen,) _Sung by Mr._ PATE.

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Here's the Summer sprightly, gay, Smiling, wanton, fresh and fair: Adorn'd with all the Flowers of _May_, Whose various sweets perfume the Air, Adorn'd with all the Flowers of _May_, Whose various sweets perfume the Air.

_A_ DOG _of_ WAR:

_Or, The Travels of _DRUNKARD, _the famous Curr of the Round _WOOLSTAPLE _in_ WESTMINSTER. _His Services in the_ NETHERLANDS, _and lately in _FRANCE, _with his return home._

_The_ ARGUMENT.

_An Honest, Well-knowing, and well-known Souldier, (whose Name for some Reasons I conceal) dwelt lately in _Westminster, _in the round Woolstaple, he was a Man only for Action, but such Actions as Loyalty did always justifie, either for his Prince, Country, or their dear and near Friends or Allies, in such n.o.ble designs he would and did often with Courage and good Approvement employ himself in the Low-countries, having always with him a little black Dog, whom he called_ Drunkard; _which Curr would (by no means) ever forsake or leave him. But lately in these French Wars, the Dog being in the Isle of_ RHEA, _where his Master (valiantly fighting) was Unfortunately slain, whose death was griev'd for by as many as knew him; and as the Corps lay dead, the poor loving Masterless Dog would not forsake it, until an English Souldier pull'd off his Masters Coat, whom the Dog followed to a Boat, by which means he came back to_ Westminster, _where he now remains.

Upon whose Fidelity, (for the love I owed his deceased Master) I have writ these following Lines, to express my Addiction to the Proverb,_ Love me and Love my Dog.

To the Reader.

_Reader if you expect_ _from hence_, _An overplus of Wit_ _or Sence_, _I deal with no such_ _Traffique:_

Heroicks _and_ Iambicks _I_, _My Buskinde Muse hath_ _laid them by_, _Pray be content with_ Saphicke.

Drunkard _the Dog my_ _Patron is_, _And he doth love me_ _well for this_, _Whose Love I take for_ _Guerdon_;

_And he's a Dog of_ Mars _his Train_ _Who hath seen Men and_ _Horses slain_, _The like was never_ _heard on._

DRUNKARD _or the faithful Dog of War._

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Stand clear, my Masters 'ware your Shins, For now to Bark my Muse begins, Tis of a Dog, I write now: Yet let me tell you for excuse, That Muse or Dog, or Dog or Muse, Have no intent to bite now.

In Doggrel Rhimes my Lines are writ, As for a Dog I thought it fit, And fitting best his Carka.s.s.

Had I been silent as a Stoick, Or had I writ in Verse Heroick, Then had I been a Stark a.s.s.

Old _Homer_ wrote of Frogs and Mice, And _Rabblaies_ wrote of Nits and Lice, And _Virgil_ of a Flye: One wrote the Treatise of the Fox, Another prais'd the Frenchman's Pox, Whose praise was but a Lye.

Great _Alexander_ had a Horse, A famous Beast of mighty force Yecleap'd _Buce-_ _phalus_: He was a stout and st.u.r.dy Steed, And of an exc'lent Race and Breed, But that concerns not us.

I list not write the Baby praise Of Apes, or Owls, or Popingeys, Or of the Cat _Grammalkin:_ But of a true and trusty Dog, Who well could fawn, But never cog, His Praise my Pen must walk in.

And _Drunkard_ he is falsely nam'd, For which that Vice he ne'er was blam'd, For he Loves not G.o.d _Bacchus_: The Kitchin he esteems more dear, Than Cellars full of Wine or Beer, Which oftentimes doth wreck us.